Wait for Me
I await,
turning and twisting eternity
into a fine, stupid thing.
Wait for me, you say.
Ok, I am still waiting,
your waiter,
delivering the first course of a thousand flowers
settling like motes on an apocalyptic table.
Wait for me.
I stand awaiting and awaited,
but I won’t remember.
No amount of waiting
makes you remember what is gone.
Remember: the future is never now.
Wait.
No.
I am as clear as tags on a boxcar
clacking by,
graffiti at 50 mph
washed away,
seen then un-seen,
not waiting,
not even a tick
for me
to affix them
in my thoughts,
transient,
I can’t wait to forget.
Not even.